A Watcher's Duty
by Darkover
Summary: A late-night conversation in a library, and the results.


A Watcher's Duty  
  
Xander looked into the library cage where Giles normally kept weapons and the more valuable books on vampirism and demonology, and where tonight, Oz prowled in werewolf form. At least he's quiet tonight, Xander thought. Willow's boyfriend crossed restlessly from one end of the cage to another, occasionally emitting a growl, but did not howl or rage against the bars as he sometimes did. Maybe I can even get some homework done. Xander lowered his gaze again to the textbook in front of him, wishing that Willow were here to help him, but Giles did not like the thought of her being alone in the library after dark. The Watcher was not enthusiastic about Xander being there alone, either, but someone had to make sure Oz was secure during the full moon; there was a limit to how much sleep even Giles could do without, and Buffy of course had to patrol. Besides that, there was the unspoken understanding between Xander and Giles that even the possibility of being vampire-bait while keeping an eye on a caged werewolf could be preferable to remaining at the Casa de Harris when Xander's dad was on one of his drunken rampages. Still wish Willow was here—she could explain this stuff so that even I, Mr. Underachiever of the Year, can understand it. The square root of pi? Who knows? Who cares? Pie. . . now that makes me hungry. . .well, everything makes me hungry. . .If it doesn't make me horny, anyway. . .  
"Hi, Xand."  
Xander yelped and knocked his book to the floor as he simultaneously grabbed for the cross and the bottle of holy water that Giles had left with him for protection. As the fingers of one hand closed over the cross and yanked it in front of him, he upset the bottle with the other and would have spilled its contents to the floor had it not been swiftly caught and set upright again by another smaller, more deft hand.  
"Geez, Xander. Nervous much?"  
His hand shaking, Xander lowered the cross. "Buff, you're supposed to slay vampires, not kill your friends by giving them heart attacks."  
"Sorry," his favorite blonde said with a mischievous grin, as she pulled up a chair next to him. "It's a good idea to be quiet when you're sneaking up on vamps, and I guess it didn't occur to me to take myself out of stealth-mode." She glanced at the cage and its occupant. "How has it been here tonight?"  
"Quiet. Just a boy and his dog."  
Buffy laughed quietly. "He's a wolf, Xander, not a dog—and I don't think Willow or Oz would like to hear you refer to him as such."  
"I guess Will wouldn't. But Oz wouldn't care. He's cool about things like that." Xander paused. "Sometimes joking about things is the only way to handle them. I mean, if we didn't, we'd all end up screaming, wouldn't we?"  
"Yeah." Buffy's tone was unusually subdued. "I guess we would."  
Xander looked at the Slayer. Her head was lowered and she appeared to be staring at her hands. "Something wrong, Buffy? Besides the crazy fun that is life after dark in Sunnydale, I mean."  
"Yes," she said, her voice strange, not sounding as if it belonged to her at all. "No. I mean—oh, never mind." She bounced up abruptly. "It's late. I should go home, check in with Giles, and go to bed." She was already halfway to the library doors before a startled Xander could react to the change in her mood.  
"Buffy, wait! Come back!" She stopped and turned back slightly, but did not return to the table. "That sounded like—I mean," he stammered, not feeling up to his usual glib repartee at all, "I could listen. If—if there's something you want to share, that is." He spread his hands, giving her one of his usual silly grins. "I'm not G-Man, I know, but since he isn't here, just consider me your honorary Watcher."  
For a second Buffy stared at him, then she returned to her seat at the table. "Why not?" she said quietly, more as if she were talking to herself than to her best male friend. "There is something that's—well, kind of been preying on my mind, y'know, and—well, there isn't anyone I can talk to about it."  
Xander swallowed, not certain what he had let himself in for, but feeling very sure that if it was something she couldn't talk to either Willow or Giles about, then there was no way that Xander Harris, King of Cretins, could handle it. The only subject she might not be able to talk about to her Watcher was. . . "Buffy, is this about Deadboy?"  
She stared at him as if he were speaking Mandarin. "Huh? Oh—no, Xander, it isn't about Angel," she told him, pointedly emphasizing the name. "Do you want to hear this or not?"  
"Yeah, I do," he said hastily, suddenly ashamed of himself. Buffy did not often ask for help. If she needed it, he should do his best. That his best wouldn't be as good as that of Willow or Giles went without saying, but he was here and they were not. The only other person here was Oz, who was hardly in a position to play guidance counselor. "Tell me what's on your mind, Buffy."  
"Death," she said, her head down once more, her voice so low that she seemed to be talking to the table top. "My dying."  
"Buffy?" Xander managed, bewildered and scared for her. I really, really wish that Giles was here.  
Buffy's head rose quickly at his tone. "Take it easy, Xand. I don't mean that I'm dying anytime soon—at least, I hope not." She propped her chin up with one hand and leaned forward pensively. "That's the problem, though. I don't know."  
"Are you talking about a prophecy, or—"  
"No, Xander. I mean—oh, I'm so bad at this!" she exclaimed suddenly, almost angrily. Behind her, Oz gave a low growl. "I just can't find the words to express what I mean, the way Giles can. I don't mean that I think I'm dying, or even that I want to know exactly when I'm going to die. I'm just saying that, since I'm the Slayer, I have a limited expiration date. I just wish I could talk about that with someone."  
"Have you ever asked Giles about it? What does he say?"  
She snorted. "Nothing. He dodges my questions, and if I press about it, he gets all flustered and changes the subject. Once, a while back, I became Insistent-Girl about it, telling him that as the Slayer, I had the right to know how long I was going to live. He told me that no one knew how long they were going to live. I got mad at him and told him to give me some idea—at least tell me how long other Slayers had lived."  
"What did he say?"  
"He got real quiet, and for a second, I thought maybe I pushed him too far. Then, in his super-controlled `I-am-a-Watcher-and-I-am-repressing' voice, he told me that the lifespan of Slayers varied for many reasons, none of which he was really competent to go into right now, but that I should just stop worrying about it because he was going to make very sure that I lived a long time. And that he refused to discuss it any further. Since then, I haven't been able to get a peep out of him on the subject. You know how Giles is. When he wants to be, he can be Mr. Super-Stubborn Guy."  
"Sounds like good advice though, Buff," Xander said gently.  
She went on as though he had not spoken. "I can't talk to Willow about it, either, because she just gets all nervous and stammer-y and insists that of course everything is going to be all right, and why am I even thinking about such a thing?"  
"Why are you thinking about it, Buffy?" her friend asked.  
She gave him a hard stare. "Because I have the right to know, that's why. I want to be able to plan a little."  
"But how is knowing going to change anything?"  
"You're not helping, Xander!" she almost shouted, and Oz began to snarl and pace rapidly in his cage. She stood up, pushing herself away from the table. "Nobody knows what I'm talking about—nobody wants to know. I've tried talking to Mom, but she just gets even more uptight about it than Giles does. Oh, why do I expect anyone to understand?" She whirled and would have stomped out if Xander had not placed a careful hand on her shoulder.  
"Buffy, wait. I do understand—at least a little."  
She gave him a look of utter disbelief, but she did not move away. "Get real, Xander. I mean, no offense, but you're not a Slayer. What do you know about it?"  
"I know about being afraid," he said, his voice low. "I understand a lot better than you think, Buffy."  
She stared at him, her face not softening, but she waited for him to go on.  
"You're right," he said, speaking rapidly and without his usual joking manner. "I'm not a Slayer. But do you think you're the only one who has ever wondered if they're going to live long enough to grow up? I'm not just talking about vampires here, Buffy. I'm talking about my dad."  
She stared at him, her expression changing to one of concern.  
Xander continued, his voice low. "Do you think I hang around the library all the time because I like to visit the books? Do you think I'm here this late because I'm hoping for a career in werewolf-watching? Buffy, I'm here because sometimes even the nightlife that is Sunnydale is safer than being at home. When my dad goes on a bender—well, let's just say that I've never been afraid of Larry or any of the other bullies here at school because I've known a lot worse."  
Slowly, Buffy sank back down into a chair. "God, Xander. I never realized..."  
He shrugged then made an effort to get back to being the guy she knew by giving her one of his patented goofy-Xander grins. "Yeah, well, what can I say? I'm just a man of mystery." His smile faded. "But my point is, Buffy, I can relate. If I didn't have you guys—and Giles—I...I'm not sure I would still be around to graduate. And I don't just mean because of my pathetic grades."  
Buffy placed her hand on his, squeezing gently, her expression compassionate. Xander used his other hand to cover hers, and grinned, slipping back into his familiar role once more. "Still, if I'd known I could get the attention of beautiful girls, I would have told the tale of my sad life long before now."  
Buffy snatched her hand back, swatting him lightly then turning serious. "Xander, I really am sorry. Chalk up another mark on the slate of Clueless Buffy."  
"Yeah, well, it's not as if I tried to advertise how pathetic I am."  
"You're not pathetic, Xander," the little blonde said, suddenly fierce. "If anyone is, I am. I'm the one who is surrounded by friends, by a mother who loves me, and by a devoted Watcher, and here I am feeling sorry for myself. I have a lot more than most Slayers ever had, or so Giles tells me, and I believe him."  
"That is usually wise," a familiar voice said from behind them. Xander's head jerked up, and Buffy glanced around as her Watcher entered the library. She smiled self-consciously.  
"Giles! Hi! Uh—we were just pulling werewolf duty," she told him.  
"Quite." The Watcher drew closer to the table where the teenagers were seated, glancing briefly at the occupant of the cage before turning his attention back to the girl and boy at the table. There was something in Giles' expression that Xander could not easily identify.  
"Giles, I was just on my way home. I was going to check in with you then, really," his Slayer told him.  
"That is quite all right, Buffy. I couldn't sleep anyway, and thought I would come and relieve Xander. Perhaps you could see him home, and the two of you could get to bed."  
"Sounds good to me," Xander said enthusiastically. Buffy rolled her eyes, and Giles blinked at his unintentional double-entendre.  
"I—I meant to your own beds, of course."  
"Hey, I wouldn't mind—"the boy began, but Buffy smacked his arm lightly.  
"One-track mind, much, Xander?"  
"Xander," Giles said, but it was not in a tone of reproof. The boy looked up into the green eyes of the Watcher, and read the message there. It should be safe for you to go home. Your father will have gone to bed by now, yes?  
"Okay, then," Xander said, getting up and shoving his textbook into his backpack. "I guess we should be moseying along. I've always wanted to mosey."  
"I'll walk you home, Xander," Buffy offered.  
"For that, fair lady, I would pull werewolf-duty any day of the week." Xander offered her an excessively gallant bow, dislodging a pile of Giles' books as he did so, almost knocking them over before the librarian grabbed them. "Uh, sorry, G-Man."  
"Don't call me that," the Watcher said automatically. "Go straight home, both of you. Buffy, do call me when you get there."  
The Slayer rolled her eyes. "Giles, I'm obviously fine."  
"Buffy—"  
"Okay, okay, Caution Man." She looked at the boy. "Coming, Xander?"  
Giles watched the two teenagers leave, the library doors swinging shut behind them, a strange expression on his face as they made their departure. Yes, I'm watching them. That is what I do, after all: watch. I think perhaps it is time that I do more than watch. It is time to act. I must have a talk with Buffy some time; listen to her when she tries to tell me of her fears. For that is what the problem is: she is afraid, and does not wish to admit it even to herself. As for Xander, I had not realized that things were so bad at his house. . . .  
"Perhaps I should pay Mr. Harris a visit," he said aloud, with deceptive softness, and from the cage the werewolf growled, as if in agreement. Giles smiled, but it was not a friendly smile.  
Yes, it is high time I paid Mr. Harris a visit. As Ripper.  
Sometimes, a Watcher's duty took many forms. 


End file.
